


ONE DAY I WILL RETURN TO YOUR SIDE

by LorenIndra



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Homophobic Language, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29589783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LorenIndra/pseuds/LorenIndra
Summary: Harry has a strange dream. How convenient it is that his next case will involve a dream analyst?
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Comments: 14
Kudos: 21





	1. DAY 1, ???? - 12:30

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP, which means something (everything?) may change. Stay tuned.
> 
> Rated M for future chapters (or idk are drugs M??? I, like, constantly mention them, but you can do them since you are like 12, are they M?????)
> 
> I do not own the original story/characters.

**????**

Through the darkness, you hear knocking at the door. How many time sounds have brought you back to reality? But you don’t want to wake up yet. Five more minutes and the long-lost memory of your childhood; you, lying in the bed, resisting a tempting smell of bacon and fried eggs your mother is making for you.

Are you sure you want to think about your mother right now, Harry? This dream, it was about something else entirely five seconds ago, before the traitorous knocking interrupted it. Do you remember, Harry? You must. It was beautiful, after all.

Who did you dream about, Harry? Did you dream about Dora, powerful, untamed, and yet so gentle and tender; impossible to forget, the love of your life, beautiful, _bangable_ as one foul mouth would describe. Did you dream about having sex with her, she is on top of you, so domineering, a force to be reckoned with. Did you hear what she said? Her lips were moving, but you could not quite catch what exactly she was telling you. Maybe that you are handsome? _My pretty boy_. Did she call you that way at your tender age of thirty or you made it up to cover yet another truth you can’t face? You ain’t pretty. Either way, she gave you much more credit that you have ever spared to her. Or that you deserved.

But wait, are you sure it was Dora slowly rocking her hips, moaning? Are you sure it was her face you were staring at in awe? You could not see, could you? That’s why you think it’s Dora; her face has disappeared from your every memory of her.

Who could it be, then? How many loves of your life have you had, so now they can haunt you in your dreams?

How many people did you kiss on their slim wrists, when their fists were clutching to the pillow under your head? How many were so delicate compared to you that your bear-like hands looked ridiculously big on their small waist? How many could even tolerate you enough to let you enter them – and still be satisfied, like this mysterious stranger in your vision was?

Not many. And that never happened. How miserable are you, to dream about the thing that never was; have you ever heard that dreams are our repressed desires?

This one is so repressed that you can’t even see his face. Can’t hear his voice. Ride straight to the Pale, erase your personality one more time, and maybe, just maybe, a new you will have some balls to admit it.

“Who the fuck is him,” you mutter, mouth full of spit. You want to know this, don’t you? It would be so easy if I just told you. No. I love to see you suffering. You love suffering, too.

It’s on the tip of your tongue, slowly fading like the rest of your slumber. It’s not like you know many hims.

Stop chewing the corner of your pillow, Harry. Go, open the door. The sound is starting to get on your nerves.

**WAKE UP TIME**

Barely standing on you worn out legs, you open the door.

Your vision is still blurry, but you recognize the orange jacket instantly. It was so hot in Revachol yesterday, but you decide that Kim choses to be stylish. You can respect that.

Just seeing him wakes you up better than all methamphetamine in the world ever could. Don’t think about the reason too much.

“Oh, Kim, hey,” you say cheerfully, like a puppy who greets its owner. Maybe it is what you are. He gives you a small nod. “What brought you here?”

Kim squints his eyes.

“I was waiting for you in the precinct, but I see I deduced correctly you were not going to show up,” he says dryly.

He is judging you. But not as much as he judged you when you first met. He knows you are a good detective, that you take you job seriously. When you are aware of your job, of course.

“What day is it today?” and now he is judging you very much, because every adult who has a job should know what day it is.

“Monday, 10:40. And we have a new case. That’s why I was waiting for you.”

Right. Because there is no reason for you to go to work if somebody was not brutally murdered.

“I see you aren’t ready. I’ll give you ten minutes to… do whatever you need to do. I’ll be outside,” Kim says like he does not have a morning routine; he probably does not. Just waking up is enough for him to be stunning. You want to be him; that’s only natural. I would prefer to be in his head, too.

He does not wait for your reply. You watch him go, until he disappears behind the corner, leaving you alone with a grey corridor.

**11:15**

The thing you know: you like riding with Kim in his Kineema. Inside, it smells like chestnut-scented cigarettes and this scent activates your poor memory, returning you to that day when you smoked with Kim at the sunset, standing on the Whirling-in-Rags balcony. You don’t know how this aroma made it to the car, because Kim would never smoke here, but you don’t mind. It makes Kineema even more Kim's.

 _Kimeema_.

The thing you don’t know: what is this case about. You are driving for ten minutes and Kim still has not told you. Maybe he did not because he is angry with you; but he is not an emotional kind.

You clear your throat, just to draw attention to yourself.

“Ah, yes, the case,” Kim says flatly, looking slightly _not there_ , which is unusual, too. “Jacquemus Genet, male, 38 years old. Was a head of a Dobranoc clinic…”

You don’t know what Dobranoc clinic is. You have never heard of it.

Kim’s eyes quickly dart to your face; he can see your furrowed brows – that puzzled look, he is familiar with it.

“They study dreams.”

How very convenient. You just had a dream that worth studying, too pity you don’t really remember it.

“How?”

“They help you to interpret your dreams. Find the meaning behind them,” he is just guessing. “Like psychologists, but more…” Kim’s mouth is a very thin line. He is not sure how to proceed.

Nevertheless, the idea of studying dreams fascinates you. You think, that unlike medicine, this could actually save lives.

“Do they… watch your dreams with you?” it’s the weirdest question you could ask, but you are a detective. You have to ask weird questions.

Now it’s Kim’s turn to furrow.

“I don’t think so, no.”

It’s a little discouraging. You would like someone more competent than you to examine your dreams. Because there is something _abnormal_ happening in your head, even when you are sleeping, and you can’t make sense of it on your own.

“How do they know what are you dreaming of, then?”

This is Kim’s _my partner is five years old_ face, which gives Kim five years, making him look older than he is.

“You… tell them.”

Yeah, like it’s that easy.

“Kim, do you remember your dreams?” you need to know, because this dream was not the first you lost in your chaotic mind; but it the first that mattered. You know that, because you can still feel the silky white skin under your lips, even if the vision is long gone.

“Sometimes. Although, I tend to forget nightmares.”

Maybe it was a nightmare, then? A meaningless game of imagination, full of darkness and screaming, and all the things you are afraid of, which your poor mind hid under a teenage sex dream, so your stupid little heart would not burst because of a sheer dread? No, Harry. You need to find better excuse if you want that dream to stop haunting you.

“Do you think they could help me with my dreams?”

Kim shrugs.

“Please, ask them _after_ the case.”

“Sure,” you say, like a liar. You are totally going to do this during the case, aren’t you? Kim knows that, too.

The scenery flashes outside the window; a grey building after a grey building; almost as if people who built Revachol were out of colours. You realize you don’t know where you are heading; which is okay, you are rarely aware of anything at all. But you also don’t like sitting in silence, especially with Kim.

“Where are we going?”

Kim does not answer. He also drives on red. _Huh_.

“Kim?”

He turns his head to you and that’s not something he ever does when he is behind the wheel; luckily, the road is empty. Kim’s eyes are unfocused – not too unfocused, not like he had one too many drinks in the last hour, but unfocused enough for you to notice.

And then, it’s gone. Kim straightens up on his seat, his attention back to the road. But that mere second was enough for you to understand something is wrong.

You are not sure how to ask. You have been working with the man for six months and you have not learnt anything new since that case in Martinaise. You know why?

Kim is a professional, so he keeps his private life private. And you are not friends, so he has not had a chance to tell you what is troubling him over the beer.

But maybe this is even not the first time Kim is distracted. Maybe you were too busy snorting some more of that wonderful white powder you _retrieved_ from a suspect several weeks ago to notice.

Don’t bother him; you have no right to. Or do. He won’t answer anyway.

“My apologize. Did you want something?” Kim taps on the wheel with his finger.

“Kim, are you alright?”

“I should ask you that,” but this is not a question. He is changing the topic. “You look tired.”

You always look tired. But Kim does not. Sometimes, Kim looks tired because you do something stupid; but he is always fine on the next day. Maybe he is exhausted from the lack of sleep?

“Did you have a nightmare, perhaps?” you ask him.

“Why?.. Ah, you are back on the case. Good. We are almost there.”

You are so not back at the case, but Kim does not want to open up to you. This makes your heart ache. But you don’t want to push it; you still feel guilty about the last time you made him talk.

“Where is there?”

“The Dobranoc clinic.”

You sink deeper into you seat and trace an uninterruptable line of grey buildings with your eyes.

You must find out what made Kim upset.

Because you care about him, even if he does not care about you (you know it’s a lie, don’t let your self-sabotaging side to tell you otherwise). But Kim’s authority is stronger than yours, so you should work subtly, without making him suspicious.

It’s a good thing you are a detective, then.

**12:00**

“Hello, detectives!” a forensic expert, Amelia, waves at you (a cigarette in her hand makes your lips itch; a familiar craving for poisonous smoke. You should have one too). She mostly waves at Kim, because she is still angry at you for that time you smoked the whole bag of evidence. But you know she is not as mad as she was a month ago, because she says _detectives_.

You are standing outside a grey building. A sickeningly yellow sign above the door says _Dobranoc_.

“Good day, Amelia,” Kim greets her. “What do you have for me?”

That hurts, because you are standing right next to him, desperately waiting to meet a dream expert. And solve the case. And learn more about Kim, but this can wait.

“Yeah, Amelia, what do you have for _us_?” you ask bitterly. They both look at you like they forgot, for a moment, that you are even there.

“The victim was shot six times in his chest from ’31, short range. Approximately between 22:00 and 7:00. The body is still in the office, if you want to see it. I’ll tell you more after autopsy. His assistant, Rina Ashante, saw him leaving yesterday before she closed the clinic. She also found him this morning.”

Amelia takes a drag. You really need to smoke.

Kim takes out his notebook and writes something down.

“Is that all?”

“It is. Ashante is waiting for you in the staff room.”

“Thank you, Amelia. I think we will examine the office first.”

“Do you care for a cigarette, Lieutenant?”

You want to chime in and say _yes_ , but she is not asking you.

“You know I only smoke once a day.”

“Still worth trying,” Amelia shrugs.

You know what she is trying to do the moment you hear it. She wants Kim to stay with her for a little longer. She does not look lonely; always so cheerful and polite, Amelia must be popular with the people of her age. Why wishing to spend more time with Kim, then?

Do they meet afterwork to have a drink? You know they are not dating; but maybe Amelia wants to. It’s easy to join the dots. And they are not friends, then, because if you know about his sexual life, his friend would as well.

But you are slightly jealous she knows about Kim’s ritual. When did she find out? Their paths don’t cross that often – and when they do, you are always there to eavesdrop any conversation, standing like a dreadful shadow behind Kim’s back. That does not add up; you have already established they are not friends, but why does she know?

“Detective?”

He is speaking to you.

“Let’s go?”

Kim is already standing at the door, his hand on the knob.

“Sure,” you nod.

**12:15**

The crime scene, as always, not pretty (although it’s not the worst one you have ever seen).

The victim, however, is.

Shining black hair, scattered on the floor, frames his head like a halo. He is so slander; you can imagine his slim shoulders underneath the bloodied blouse. He looks like a woman, but you are careful not to let this comparison go further; there is nothing to be ashamed of in looking like a woman, because there is nothing to be ashamed of in _being_ a woman.

But that’s the only word you can think of when you look at him.

Kim is already looking through his desk, but you just can’t turn away. For a second, you are overflown with feelings. Too pity he died. You think you would like to know him; you think you would like to be friends with him.

Who knows what happens in another universe right now. Maybe somewhere and somewhen you _are_ friends.

“Is there another universe?” you mutter under your breath.

“Excuse me?” Kim raises his head, interrupting whatever he was doing.

He heard you. He just does not want to acknowledge that you, sometimes, say something like that.

“Did you find anything?” you ask instead of repeating your question.

“Did you?”

You are a detective, but you just can’t find the right words to explain why you simply have to stare at the body of a very attractive man.

“Kim. There is a person we should interrogate, right? Can we please go and do that?”

Because _that_ will give you an excuse not to look at the body.

“Start without me. I will join you when I’m done here,” his gaze darts between you and the victim several times.

You know you should go, but you freeze in the place. What is so captivating about this man, anyway? Is it just his look – or is it something else? Something ephemeral that you would have never touched, even if you had had a chance?

Does he remind you of someone? Maybe you _knew_ him, after all. Can you guess what colour his eyes were before they closed for good? Aquamarine, perhaps? Two bottomless oceans on his face, but not abyss-like; kinder, gentler. Or maybe they were pitch black, like your own eyes after heroin, dilated in a fake ecstasy.

Do you remember, Harry?

“Detective?”

You swallow audibly and rush to the door, before the invisible power that man has over you turns you into the stone.

**12:30**

Rina Ashante is a chubby, blonde girl in her late twenties. She is sitting hunched up at the table in the staff room, biting on her nail; she does not acknowledge your presence when you enter the room.

“Can I take a seat?” you ask. She raises her head; her grey eyes remind you of two dirty dishes you always forget to wash.

She slowly nods.

You are not sure how to start; too many questions to ask. Family, friends, conflicts. Amelia said Rina was Jacquemus’ assistant, so she has to know a lot about him.

You are good at this, too. People always tell you their secrets; it’s almost like you have some sort of supernatural power. Maybe it’s your badge; on the other hand, your colleagues have badges too, but they are sorry losers while you are a superstar.

“Are you a dream expert?” you ask instead of any question that would make sense in that situation. Maybe you are not _that_ good. She furrows.

“A dream analyst,” Rina answers meekly. “And no, not yet. I will be, one day.”

“How old are you?”

“34.”

“Why aren’t you a dream analyst yet? Your boss was 38,” you say, not thinking for a moment about words that leave your mouth.

The wrinkle between her eyebrows deepens.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Du Bois,” why does this sound so unfamiliar? It’s your name. Own it. “I am working on this case. Please, answer my question. It is important for the investigation.”

“I’m still studying.”

But she is so _old_. Please, in the sake of all holy and innocent, don’t say that out loud.

“Do they teach dream science in the University of Revachol?”

She huffs at your ignorance.

“Dr. Genet teaches me. Taught me. He is a founder of this method. It is still rather new to study it in the university.”

“Can you analyse dreams?”

“Detective,” you hear Kim’s voice behind you back. “I’ll take it over from here.”

Kim occupies the chair next to you and put his notebook on the table.

“My name is Kim Kitsuragi,” he says to Rina. “I am from Precinct 41. Sorry for your loss, Ms. Ashante. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

Rina straightens up, clearly comforted by Kim’s presence. That is what manners are for.

“You partner has already started.”

Kim smiles dryly.

“Where have you been between 22:00 and 7:00?”

“Am I a suspect?”

“Not at all,” Kim adjusts his spectacles. “But I have to ask.”

“I closed the clinic several minutes after Dr. Genet left. I think it was 22:15 or something.”

“And then?”

“I went home.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

Rina fidgets in her chair.

“I live alone,” she says quietly.

 _Rina Ashante:  
Closed the clinic at 22:15.  
no alibi  
_appears on the paper in an elegant handwriting.

“No worries. What can you tell me about Dr. Genet’s connections? Any friends you know of? Family? Did he have any conflicts at work?”

“He was a very private man. Never talked about his personal life at work,” Rina says with a hint of regret in her voice. You feel it, too.

“What about his colleagues, then? We will need the list of people who work for the clinic, of course, but is there something in particular worth mentioning?”

“I have the staff list right here. There are names and addresses. A person who came before you said you would need it,” Rina reaches out her hand and unclenches her fist, revealing a small white square. “Sorry. I was nervous.”

“That’s okay. Thank you,” Kim takes the paper from her hand and carefully unfolds it. “So, any conflicts at work?”

“He had an argument with another analysist last week. It was pretty serious.”

“Do you, perhaps, know what they were arguing about?”

“ _Everyone_ in the clinic knows. They disagreed on how to interpret dreams.”

Kim does not speak up. He is waiting for her to continue, leaning over his notes.

“Can you… elaborate?” he asks when the silence becomes unbearable.

Rina puts her feet on the chair beside her and gently rocks it.

“Well, there are two approaches. The first one says dreams should be understood literally. Like when you see a pregnant woman in your dream, it means the woman you know in real life is pregnant. But Dr.Genet's approach says it’s a metaphor.”

Does it mean that you want to have sex if you dream about sex? That sounds absurd. When was the last time you really wanted someone, without being so high you barely could get it up? Maybe the second approach suits your case better. But you are not a poet, what can you possibly know about metaphors?

“Thank you for the explanation. So, Dr. Genet…”

“What does it mean?” you interrupt.

“What does what mean, Detective?” Kim asks, when he understands Rina is not going to say anything.

“When you see a pregnant woman in your dream.”

Rina cautiously looks at Kim, probably not sure if she should answer that. He slightly nods.

There are many things to admire in Kim. He is smart. Patient. His style is a form of art and he dances like a disco star. But, most importantly, he trusts you. He _really_ trusts you. He does not always respect you as a person; which is fair, you do a lot of things that are hard to condone. But, no matter what you do, he never questions your detective work. That’s why he allows you to speak with people without any filter whatsoever.

This is how loyalty feels and looks like, Harry. Delightful, is not it?

“It means you are involved in the creative process, but someone else is taking the credit for it,” she says awkwardly, words are foreign in her mouth, like she learnt them by heart, but does not really understand the meaning. That’s why she is not a dream expert yet.

Her explanation does not help you, because your dream was not about pregnant woman. Your dream was about _him_. Maybe you should find a _real_ dream expert and ask them. You can only hope that there is someone else who works with metaphors.

Kim clears his throat.

“Who did Dr. Genet argued with?”

“Allesa Torgova. She is on the list.”

Kim draws a circle around that name on a rather creasy paper.

“What was your relationship like with Dr. Genet?”

 _Thud-thud_. The rocking intensifies, two chair legs hit the tile – the second pair follows their example the moment later.

“I was his apprentice. Always admired his work.”

“Do I understand correctly that you did not know him outside the clinic?”

“Yes. As I said, he was very reserved. But I know that he also was very…”

 _Pretty_.

“Kind. People at work loved him.”

“Are you always at the clinic on Sunday’s evenings?”

“Dr. Genet asked me to help to organize some papers.”

“In his office?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Nothing,” Kim writes something else, but you don’t have a chance to read it because he shuts the notebook. “Detective, do you have any questions?”

Kim is addressing you. Show him that his trust is not misplaced. Ask the question that will help you to catch the killer.

“Was he, by any chance, a member of a Homo-Sexual Underground movement?”

The chair Rina was rocking finally falls down on the floor with a shriek.


	2. DAY 1, 13:30 - 14:30

**13:30**

Kim carefully watches the road, holding the wheel with one hand.

He does not like it when you ask _that_ question. Kim tries very hard not to show that he is even more disappointed with you than he usually is, but you _know_. Small details are important; how silently he left, completely ignoring you, after quietly saying _thank you for your cooperation_ to Rina; his heavy steps, when he went down the stairs to his Kineema; the door of the car being shut so loud it scared birds, that were bathing in the puddle on the pavement.

And now, he leans on his hand, slightly covering his mouth with a fist; but you can see the opened corner of his lips anyway. Kim is so tensed; you don’t need to be a detective to read that stress on his face and in his shoulders; you don’t even need to have eyes. Leather of his glove creaks on the leathered wheel, because his grip is just a little too tight.

 _Kim does not like when you ask that question_.

But he has never reacted like this before.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No.”

Why are you even asking? He is.

“I know your approach is… different. But you have never failed to solve the case,” Kim takes the right turn and leather sings. “I might have overreacted,” these words are difficult for him; a certain sting for admitting a mistake for the first time after you made it.

Was it a mistake, though? Sometimes, it’s easy to forget Kim is just a human; you don’t forget, because you saw him dancing; you played Suzerainty with him in the middle of investigation. You know quite well that he is uncomfortable with emotions, but when he does feel and face them, it’s not a mistake.

“Did you find anything in the office?” you say, because you don’t want him to be even more uncomfortable. Kim relaxes a bit, but there is still some tension in his arms.

“His papers were in complete disarray.”

“But Rina said she helped organizing them. Maybe the one who killed him was looking for something?”

Kim puts his left hand on the wheel. Keep talking to him about the case; it calms his down.

“I don’t think so. Rina could lie. Did you learn anything?”

“Not much,” you shrug. “She is not a dream expert.”

“How is that important?”

It _is_ important because you need one. It might be not as important for the case. You know, the one you are working on?

“She is 34. And she is still just an assistant,” you say as confidentially as you can. “And you said papers were in disarray. They had no reason to be at the clinic that late on a weekday otherwise, right?”

Kim hums.

“You may be onto something,” you hear _but_ , although Kim does not elaborate.

“So, can we arrest her?”

Kim wants to sigh; his shoulders rise but he stops them midway and breathes out slowly and quietly.

“We need to check the victim’s apartment. And talk to people from that list Rina gave us.”

“Where did he live?” you barely recognize the view outside the window. Grey buildings are replaced with transparent ones, tall and beautiful.

“Grand Couron.” You like the sound of those words when Kim says them. The flatness of his voice, how his tongue carefully avoids _r_.

“Come again?” You want to hear it one more time.

“Grand Couron,” Kim repeats patiently, but loudly, for you to catch it this time. It breaks the spell, gives his tone a weird, nervous edge.

Wait a second, why do you even find Kim’s voice enticing?

“I have never been there before,” you say, trying to outspeak the voices in your head.

“I’m sure you have. Maybe before you lost your memory. Wealthy people live there.”

That’s why everything you see is so different. Even _air_ here is nicer, cleaner. You would love to live in a place like this. Maybe you should stop wasting your money on drugs. There is a vacant apartment in one of those glassy fancy buildings; nothing stops you from renting it.

On the other hand, maybe you should spend _more_ money on drugs. That way, you will reach such heights that no building could ever help you to reach.

Also, how about to use this moment to learn more about Kim?

“Do you come here often?”

“Why would I?”

It’s a very fitting question; something to continue a natural flow of the conversation. But it surprises you how easily you can imagine Kim enjoying abundant, luxury life.

But can you actually see it? Kim opens the door under a velvet neon sign. He descents into the smoky room and square-built security greets him as an old friend, but Kim only nods politely. Red light compliments his face, plays on his cheekbones, making him younger; his shoulders are covered with the black fabric of a turtleneck, and he is even more delicate than ever. Kim is not wearing his spectacles, so you can finally absorb how he looks without them and imprint it under your eyelids, so you will never forget. His expression is open, but not enough for you to get behind the walls he carefully built around his true self. This is just your all too vivid imagination, after all.

He takes a place behind the bar and a bartender – a young, blonde man with slender, long fingers and full lips - waves at him. He asks Kim, trying to outcry the music, _the usual?_ ; Kim’s lips silently move and the man starts pouring whiskey (Sur-La-Clef Single Malt, 16 years; you can taste it on the root of your tongue) in the old fashioned glass.

Kim is enjoying his time alone, sipping his drink, but not for too long. A man dressed in an elegant black suit sits next to him; he puts his hand with neatly kept nails on Kim’s thigh and whispers something in Kim’s ear – something that you can’t hear because of the music. Kim does not like this invasion at all; he pulls away and shakes his head. You feel what the man in black suit feels. He does not take rejection well, but smiles anyway; Kim smiles back, but his eyes are serious.

In another universe, you are in that bar with Kim. Two handsome men with impeccable style, enjoying a marvellous night together. In another universe, you put your hand on his thigh; soft, silky fabric of his pants tickles your palm. In another universe, he would not say no. He would say…

“Detective? We have arrived.”

You slowly blink, trying to shake off the vision. What the fuck did just happen anyway, Harry?

“Did you fall asleep?”

Yeah, did you?

You shake your head and open the door, stumbling several times as you get out of the car.

Fresh air sobers you up a little.

**14:30**

A concierge opens the door of the victim’s apartment for you and, muttering under her breath _he was such a nice young man_ closes it behind you after you come in.

What a nice place appears before your eyes. So much space, while you live in some shithole. It can be yours, if you give up drugs.

And alcohol.

And cigarettes.

You are not seriously considering this, are you?

But those floor-to-ceiling windows are amazing; you can actually see the half of Revachol even from your place. And under your feet? It’s a real hickory. Now look up again; those pictures hanging on the walls - they are real paintings. You appreciate art; you would appreciate it even more if you had some art at your place. Your gaze wanders around the room, but suddenly stops at the real star of this apartment.

“Kim, look, the victim had a staircase!”

“I can see that,” of course he can, he is not blind; he is also not as enthusiastic about the staircase as you are; for him, it means that investigation will take longer, because there is more stuff to search through.

“Can I take the second floor?” you ask impatiently.

“Of course, detective.”

You come closer to the staircase, your eyes wide in awe. It’s not your first staircase, of course, but nothing you have ever seen before radiated such grace. Marble steps - its pink veins intertwine with each other, giving birth to mystical, almost supra-natural shapes. Each baluster slat is slightly different; hand-made, you realize, truly fascinated, tracing those glorious lianas with your gaze as the whirl up to the most astounding part.

Rails.

Both are equally gorgeous, but the left one winks at you, shining in the afternoon light.

It’s just your fingertips first, but it is enough for you to feel an electric tingle. You are a grumpy, grey cloud and the rail is a reach, fertile land; a real hurricane would envy the storm that happens between you two.

Don’t rash it. Let yourself enjoy this mutual attraction, but don’t forget that the rail is a goddess and you are a mere mortal. You are lucky it’s a benevolent deity, which won’t punish you for not getting on your knees instantly.

Now, do it. _Doitdoitdoit_. The rail allows you to touch it, to put your dirty hands on its silky, gentle surface. You are wetting your lips, wondering if you can press your chapped lips to Its Paleness, like it is an icon. Absolutely not.

It feels good, does not it? Just standing there; time ceases to exist, the whole world ceases to exist. It is the most important moment of your miserable life.

“Detective?” you hear a distant voice. Brush it off. Nothing matters anymore as you are drifting in this charged delight. “Harry?”

That’s your fucking name. You always ruin everything. Go, do your pathetic, boring job. A foreign noise has scared away your rapture anyway. When gods speak, they don’t want to be interrupted.

Back to the dull reality, then.

“Did you find anything?” Kim stands before you and he is not happy about the fact that you have spent the last five minutes staring at one place.

“Did you?”

He squeezes the bridge of his nose, making his spectacles lift a little.

“Just go upstairs, okay?” he says wearily. And honestly, yeah, you should do just that.

There is not much to see upstairs. High-class people don’t have a lot of furniture. It’s a pity you wasted all your reverence and time on the staircase, because round bed with fluffy cushions at the centre of the room evokes the same warm feelings inside you.

You decide to start with a bathroom, hidden beside a transparent door (you think it’s highly unpractical but who cares about your plebian opinion). Bathroom is the place where people keep their drugs and it is your duty – because you are the law – to confiscate them. That’s why you go straight to the medicine cabinet and press on it.

It does not give in.

You pull it then, gathering all your strength. Nothing. There is also no keyhole to open it – and no drawers under the sink. Where the hell this guy hid his drugs?

Discouraged, you return to the bedroom and cross the room to open a built-in wardrobe. The pleasant aroma is the first thing that greets you; you don’t know what it is, but it smells different, foreign, nothing similar to the scent of the rotten cabbage of your own apartment. You think it would remind you of flowers, if you had any memory of what flowers smell like.

The clothes are nice, too. You touch several items, folded on the shelves – and then barbarically rummage through them; not too barbarically, there is too much respect for the victim in you. You don’t throw anything out on the floor, just bother their careful chaoticnessless. But you find nothing; no letters from lovers which would confirm your suspicions about him being in the Homo-Sexual Underground. No drugs. And, most importantly, the more you look at his clothes, the more it seems unfitting. You know _everything_ about style. And you know that the man like Genet would never wear a beige blouse; it’s expansive, like the rest of his clothes, but it’s just not his colour.

Nothing here is his colour.

You leave the wardrobe alone. The only thing left is a bed. Something tells you you won’t find anything there, either. You come closer and pick up the fluffy cushions. Nothing.

 _Huh_.

Go and tell Kim about what you _did not_ find.

Kim is searching through the bookcase. One book after another; pages rustle for a second before Kim closes it with a soft thud. He signs heavily and turns around, flinching a little the moment he notices you; it is so subtle an untrained eye would never see it.

“Tell me you have something,” Kim says hopefully. You don’t like to disappoint him, but what can you do? Plant some of your own drugs under his sink? What a waste, he won’t even need them, but you do.

Kim’s question means he did not find anything either.

“Kim,” you start. “This apartment… It’s so beautiful. But impersonal, like he did not even live here. There were not even any drugs in his bathroom. You sure it’s the right address?”

“I am. The concierge let us in, remember?”

Silence. Both of you don’t know what to say. Both of you don’t know what to make of the information you _have not_ just gathered.

“Maybe he lived somewhere else?” you finally offer.

“Well, the concierge clearly knew him, so it seems unlikely.”

“But Kim, listen. I am not telling you he did not spent some time here, because there is a used toothbrush on his sink and those books, but I think he spent even more time not… here.”

“Okay, where then?” It’s not plausible enough for him yet. Kim wants to be convinced.

“His lover’s apartment?”

Because you know he had a lover. But Kim does not and that’s why he looks at you like you said something highly improbable. _Stupid_.

“It’s your obsession with other’s people sexuality again, is not it?”

Kim gives away so many things at once that you barely keep up collecting them. First of all, you did not say it was a _male_ lover, it’s Kim who is obsessed with other’s people sexuality. Second, he is still angry at you, even if there is no rational reason for him to be. Third, he is deeply uncomfortable ( _again_ ) – and you still don’t know why, aside the fact that he is, in general, uncomfortable with anything that even slightly concerns his private life.

But nothing you said actually concerned _Kim’s_ private life.

“Just think about it,” you shrug. “Where would _you_ store your clothes if not at your place?”

Kim gives you _that_ look, but you are yet to define _that._ Because it’s not tired or annoyed; that look probably means you crossed some invisible line.

You should be careful.

“You did not find clothes?” If changing the topic was a sport discipline, Kim would be the most successful player.

“I did, but uhm. It was his, but it was not, you know?”

Kim arches an eyebrow.

“You know it how?”

How can you explain your deepest knowledge of fashion in one sentence?

“I just know.” Ever so eloquent, aren’t you? “Please, Kim, just consider it.”

“I will,” he says reluctantly, but sincerely. “But, in the meantime, we have to move on.”

“Sure. What’s next?”

“Rina said Dr. Genet had an argument with Allesa Torgova. We need to know where she was last night. Perhaps, she also knows more about him than his assistant.”

You leave the apartment, holding the door for Kim.


	3. DAY 1, 16:00 - 16:50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, ugh, in this chapter I used the big bad F word; I am aware that not everyone is comfortable with it, but i justify using it as a part of my reclaiming process. In the case you need any justification for this, you know.

**16:00**

The building Allesa Torgova lives in stands in the centre of Eminent Domain. You like this district much less than Grand Couron, because it reminds you of your own; although the hall that leads to Allesa’s apartment smells of oil and kerosine, while yours just smells of decay.

Kim knocks – you hear some rustling behind the door – and when it opens, you see a woman with messy curly hair and bronze skin. Dark circles under her eyes betray many sleepless nights she spent on interpreting dreams literally.

“What?” Allesa asks impatiently. “Listen, if this is about payment, I don’t have the money yet.”

“Ms. Torgova?” Kim starts, slowly. “We are from Precinct 41.”

“Now they send cops to collect the money?” What you instantly come to admire about her is the fact that she is not afraid of you, even if she thinks you are here for such a dirty work. She radiates some calm determination on the border with cold desperation. A woman who does not have anything to lose.

“We are investigating Dr. Genet’s death.”

Allesa relaxes, lowering the hand she was holding on the doorframe.

“Ah, _that_. And?”

For a second, your eyes meet Kim’s.

“We would like to ask you some questions.”

“Why?” She arches her eyebrow. “Don’t you have more important things to do? Like, arresting the one who killed him?”

She has a point; you find it is very hard to argue with that.

That’s what you have done before meeting Kim, right? Arresting people. Remember how wonderful it felt? And now all you do is investigating. An ungrateful job.

Also, Kim does not know what to say, either; as much as he loves investigating stuff, he is not as good with people as you are. Give him a hand.

“I have heard you are a highly professional dream expert.” The look on Kim’s face is both puzzled and thankful.

“Sure. Unlike that bastard Genet.” That’s one way to show respect to a dead person. Allesa sighs. “Alright, what do you want to know?”

Appealing to ego is yet to fail you.

“Will you let us in?”

She takes a quick glance at the room behind her and takes a step back.

“Just don’t touch anything.”

Allesa leads you through a dim hall to a small kitchen; grey walls are covered with green and brown stains. You don’t want to touch anything here, but Kim, seemingly unbothered, accepts Allesa’s invitation to sit at the tiny, yellow table; besides, there is only one free chair, so you look better in Kim’s eyes when you allow him to occupy it.

“So, what do you want to know?” Allesa pours some water in the cracked mug and takes a place across Kim.

Kim opens his notebook.

“How close were you with Dr. Genet?” he asks. Sometimes you wonder why he made you to do all the talking in Martinaise; or, perhaps, he just does not want you to ask _that_ question. Again.

“Close enough to know he was one sleazy bastard,” Allesa puts her chin on her hand.

“But you worked for him anyway?”

“Listen, this is not a very popular field in Revachol. Here, if you are as passionate about dreams as I am, you either work for Genet or not at all.”

That upsets her, but she does not really show it; well, she does, but it is a peculiar mix of pride and disgust, and regret. Pride prevails. She likes her job, even if she disagrees with the main party policy.

“Tell me about your argument last week.”

Allesa lowers her gaze, tapping on the mug with her fingers.

“Well, if you know about it, that rat has already told you.”

“We want to hear it from you.”

“It’s an old story, really.” Her tone changes. Allesa is not so confident anymore. “We argued a lot. But it’s not something worth killing for.”

“We are not saying you did it…”

“Well, you are here, aren’t you?” She raises her head swiftly and some of her spaghetti locks fall down on her forehead.

You wonder where did her bravado go so suddenly. What happened with that woman who opened the door and greeted you with angry _what_?

“We know you didn’t do it, but you can help us to catch the one who did,” you suddenly chime in. Two pairs of eyes stare at you in surprise. Both Kim and Allesa can’t believe you have just crossed her out from the list of suspects. Why have you, anyway?

Harry, you know, sometimes _knowing_ is not enough. Although, it is not the case here. You said that because it would calm Allesa down, make her to continue talking. But neither of them is aware of it.

Allesa does calms down, though.

“I don’t know what to tell you, honestly. I didn’t do it and I have no idea, who did. Yes, me and Genet, we disagreed on many things, but I did not kill him. Could not. I was in Mirova, came back just a few hours ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” You and Kim ask simultaneously. Kim gestures to you to continue, but it’s Allesa who speaks instead.

“Because it’s none of your business.”

“It is, if it proves you are innocent.” You shrug.

“You said I was not a suspect.”

“I lied.”

Allesa opens her mouth to say something, but Kim interrupts her.

“Your trip, indeed, is not our concern. Unless it was, somehow, connected to the clinic.”

Most of the time, you can see what Kim can’t. Call it whatever you want, but that’s how it is. However, sometimes Kim sees what you can’t; and not because he has some supra-natural abilities, not because voices in his head read to him a script on which he acts on. It’s a mundane poignancy of his mind that helps him to make connections, which you often overlook just because there is too much information for you to handle as it is.

“It was,” Allesa says and freezes. “I mean, it was not,” she adds hastily.

Kim scribbles on the paper, but you can’t see the words from where you stand. Allesa obviously can, because she takes a look and holds up her hands defensively.

“You know what? Yeah, I was looking for a new job.”

“That far from Revachol?”

“I’m sick of this place.” You are, too. “Besides, they actually study dreams in Mirova. Here, there are just four of us. Three. And two of them think dreams mean something beyond what you see.”

“I thought the victim invented this method,” you ask, confused.

“He did. In Mirova. But then, he left and started his practice here.”

So young and has already done so much. It seems that the man was not only beautiful, but also relentless.

“Has he ever threatened to fire you?”

“No. I’d like to think he saw me as a good specialist, but I doubt it. But my client base is bigger than Genet’s; he probably did not want to lose money.”

This is curious. You think people – just like you – would be more interested in metaphors.

“Why do you have a bigger client base?”

Allesa’s lips form a very thin line; your question offends her. Why wouldn’t she? It bothers her deeply to explain something so simple to a plebian like yourself.

“Because, detective, it is a therapy,” she speaks slowly, so you could understand. “A fancy one, but a therapy nonetheless. And people go to therapy because they want to be told what to do. They don’t want you to find some hidden meaning behind their thoughts and feelings. They want a simple solution to a difficult problem. If you are a common therapist, you can’t just give an advice. But imagine you patient saw a divorce in his dream. Just tell him it is exactly what he needs – and not because you say that, but because his unconscious does.”

Now, that sounds highly unprofessional; no wonder Genet argued with her all the time. She has a point though. Maybe you do want to have sex with that man you saw in your dream; but, if so, how can you do that if you did not see his face? And what does it even mean? Luckily, you are in one room with a dream expert. Not the best one, thought, but still an expert.

“What if someone,” you start, awkwardly. “What if someone sees a person in their dreams – but not that person’s face.”

Allesa glares at you.

“Obviously, it means those people don’t see each other often, to the point where the dreamer can’t even remember their face.”

Nah, that’s just bullshit. Or maybe not. Hard to tell if you don’t _know_ , right?

“And how do you identify who it is, if you can’t see their face?”

She looks at you like you are an idiot, which is probably true, but it slightly hurts you, anyway. At least, you are better at your job than she is. Probably.

“Thank you, detective,” Kim says. “And thank you, Ms. Torgova, for your cooperation.” Kim closes his notebook and stands up.

No. Nonono. You have not asked _that_ question yet. C’mon, you know this is important.

“Wait a second,” you say, when Kim passes by you. He stops; your shoulders almost touch. You swear you can see his spectacles dangerously gleam. “Do you, perhaps, know if the victim was a member of Homo-Sexual Underground?” Kim does not sigh, but you hear him doing it anyway.

Allesa snickers.

“He _totally_ was a fag.” Ouch. You twitch involuntarily, surprised that Kim remains stoically still. “You know, all well groomed and well mannered. Not like real men. Have you been to his apartment yet? I bet you saw plenty of his violet blouses with a bowknot.”

Actually, you have not seen anything like that – only dull colours and plain shapes. Allesa’s words confirm your suspicions, but it does not make you happy, because you don’t want to be proven right by someone so unnecessary rude.

“But I have no idea if he actually… you know.” Her nose wrinkles. “But Bernadette might. She is our receptionist. If someone knows, it’s her.”

“Can we go now, detective?” Kim asks in a distant voice. You nod and follow him to the door.

**16:50**

“Think we should call it a day,” Kim says as soon as the door of the car closes. You scrutinize his face, but see nothing; whichever mysterious glimpses you saw there earlier today are completely gone now. He is back to his emotionless self, cold and collected.

You are not getting anywhere with your side investigation, are you?

“Let’s smoke together first, though.”

Kim starts the engine and Kineema pleasantly roars.

“Sure.”

You drive in silence for what feels like eternity, until Kim finally stops at your apartment building. Returning back home terrifies you. You don’t want to see this place ever again. Imagine how wonderful it would be, to sit on the comfortable sofa right now and enjoy the orange Revacholian sunset. Alas, the only thing you will see today from you window is the grey wall of the nearby house. But you suddenly feel very tired – probably because you have not had any amphetamine today, so your only perspective is to go to sleep as soon as you are at home. It’s a good thing. Less reasons for depression.

You get out of the car and sit on the curb. Kim hesitates for a moment, but follows your example. He takes out the cigarette pack from his pocket and handles one cigarette to you.

It is difficult to say when it started. One day, Kim brought the whole pack instead of just one cigarette. He – you can begin wiggling your tail right here – did it because you rarely had your own. Don’t read too much into it, though. It’s not like he wanted to spent more time with you – no, nothing like that. You just have become a part of his ritual.

“So, what have we learnt?” Kim asks when you are done enjoying the first divine drag in silence.

Yeah, what have you learnt, Harry? I’ll tell you what you have not learnt; you _still_ know nothing about Kim.

“Rina had a motive; I think, Genet did not want to promote her.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Kim does not say _yet_ , but he hopes you are right. He hopes Rina killed him out of some professional envy and the case has nothing to do with Homo-Sexual Underground.

“Allesa could kill him as well.”

“She has an alibi.”

“She could have hired someone to do it.” You shrug. Because people do things like that, right?

“And why would she do that?”

Yeah, Harry, why?

“A hate crime.”

The tip of the cigarette in Kim’s mouth reddens angrily.

“There is no such thing as a hate crime,” he says wearily, bitterly, almost dramatically – and flatly at the same time. He does not want to argue with you, even though he knows you are back at it again; he just states the obvious truth someone full of hate planted in his mind.

“There is,” your tone is confident; you don’t want to argue with him too – and you, too, just state the truth you have just invented. “Did you think about what I said in his apartment?”

“I did,” Kim does not elaborate. He drops his cigarette and steps on it. “Be ready by 9 tomorrow, please.”

You watch him leaving and then driving away, until the car hides around the corner.

“Sleep well, Kim,” you say to nobody, still sitting on the curb – alone, listening to the gentle wind.


	4. DAY 2, ???? - 11:00

**????**

A white, endless corridor, with stainless walls and even ceiling. The marble on the floor shines so brightly it hurts you when you stare at it. As far as the eye can see, there is nothing; pureness upon pureness, upon pureness. It reminds me of your mind; sheer knowledge, based on supra-natural powers, lacking logic, but always so accurate.

What will you see if you go further, if you dive deeper into the whiteness? Will there be a reason – an answer to the question – why are you like that, what makes you so unique? Or, perhaps, there will be something else, something that bothers you to the point your whole existence has become based on it?

Sweet nothingness. It is also an option. It works best for you.

Go ahead, don’t be shy. There is nothing to be afraid of here. It is your happy place, after all.

The echo of your steps bounces off the white walls. You walk forward, until the light penetrates every fibre of your existence – and you are not you anymore, you are the light; warm, calm, life-giving. It’s nice to be something you are not, for a change. The world around you disappears; quiet, electrical buzz hums inside your head. You are drifting in this save sea of brightness - carefree, like a small child.

But then, your feet hit the floor. It’s that marble tile again – still painful to look at, but harmless. You are in the room now; the continuation of the corridor, it is equally impeccable, except the purple ottoman in the centre of it. A naked man rests his head on the rounded arm of the chair; you can’t see his face just yet, but you imagine the peaceful look.

Something about that man is extremely attractive; his lean back, the spine copies the flow of the river; his pose, like he is either a wild cat, lying in the water after a great hunt – or a flower, that is ready to bloom under the sun; his pale, flawless skin blinds you even more that the rest of the room. But the real reason why you can’t look away is his hair. You can tell they are soft even from your place - the finest silk, the Mesque cotton, shining so brightly, like the dying star sacrificed its last breath to give life to those locks; and the whole galaxy would shy away from the comparison with the divine blackness of his bob, all-consuming and inappropriately outstanding. The place where his tresses touch the perfect, milky skin – that’s what heaven looks like.

Why is he even there, in this room, where nothing can complement his grace? Is he lost? Maybe someone should help him to find his way back, to the land of gods. You look around, searching for a person who might do just that. But there are only two of you here. You should give him a hand, you decide firmly, but it takes a great effort to cross the room on your shaking legs and appear before him anyway.

“Uhm, hi there,” you stutter awkwardly, utterly stunned. His back was a marvellous vision, so you thought nothing could astound you more; you were mistaken.

The man raises his head, leaning on his gentle, slim wrist; that gesture alone entrances you, but the way in which his collarbones dance underneath his skin makes your palms sweaty. His hair slowly rocks from his movements, like waves that hide the abyss behind them. He casts his lapis eyes over you – and you can’t see a smallest hint of disgust you usually see when the person this beautiful looks at you.

“Good to see you,” the man says like he means it – and smiles. Ah, if only the sun was as lavish with its beams upon you as he was with that smile, you would be the happiest man in the world.

When was the last time someone told you it was good to see you, anyway?

The man pats on the cushion with his right hand, inviting you to sit with him.

You hesitate, because you don’t want to degrade him with your presence any further, to defile his beauty with your dirty, low existence.

“I am not going to bite. Unless you ask nicely.” The man winks playfully.

You would never do that; first of all, you don’t know how to speak with him. You feel like if you open your mouth, the bunch of worms will crawl out from you throat – and this will, without a doubt, make him look away from you. You don’t want that. The only thing you want is for the man to keep watching you. Maybe – you can be bold in your fantasies – you even want him to watch you as you watch him.

You also can’t let him bite you. You can’t let him even touch you. He will wither like the most delicate, fussiest flower.

But he is suddenly so very sad; you hate yourself for being a reason why the corners of his flawlessly pink lips are pulled downwards. So, you slump on the ottoman, completely lacking any grace in your movements. The man is strangely at peace with that.

“I am glad you are finally here.” His voice is so smooth, but behind it you hear the echo of another one; it sounds oddly familiar, but you can’t tell why.

“Were you…” you stop, waiting for the sign of worms. Nothing squirms inside you mouth; it’s safe to continue. “Were you waiting for me?”

He laughs, very quietly, but yet so cheerfully, like a small bird. He is not laughing at your stupidness; it’s the laughter of relief, you realize joyfully; he is truly delighted to see you.

“I was, I am so sure of it. How could I wait for someone who is not you?” He bites on his lower lip, his teeth are small pearls. “But I don’t remember why. Maybe you can help me?”

You don’t want to disappoint him, but you can’t help even yourself. But wait, who is this man, even? Do you know him? You don’t remember so. many. things. but how could you forget him, Harry? I will never forgive you for that.

“What is your name?”

He blinks slowly several times; his long lashes touch the softest place under his eyes.

“It’s Jacquemus.” The man reaches out his hand and you shake it, hesitantly, carefully, reverently. He is the essence of the innocence; if you break him, the whole world will collapse. “And yours?”

The disgusting noise comes out of your mouth. You simply must ruin everything beautiful in your life, don’t you, Harry?

“Oh, I am sorry, I did not catch it,” Jacquemus says, completely unbothered by your inability to speak in coherent ways. You feel your cheeks heat up.

“Harrier,” you croak again. It’s not any better, but he nods, satisfied.

“Harrier,” he tastes the word on the tip of his tongue and, judging by the wrinkles in the corners of his impossible eyes, finds it pleasant. “A beautiful name for such a handsome man.”

Jacquemus does not lie when he says that, but you just can’t believe him. I can’t, either, because I will never unsee _the expression_ in the Whirling-in-Rags’ mirror. But we must believe him. He is astoundingly persuasive. A man you actually want to trust.

“So, you don’t know me then, Harrier?” His tone is just a little bitter. Jacquemus regrets not meeting you earlier. Wow, that’s new.

But you do know him. Now, when he told you his name, you finally recognize him. You saw him, breathless and cold, lying on the floor of his own clinic, somewhere far away from that room. You remember thinking you would like to make the acquaintance of him; this is your another universe, Harry. Don’t fuck it up; don’t bring it up that he died, once, and you witnessed him in his final rest, lifeless and colourless, completely different from the man who lies next to you, to the point where he could not even tell it’s him.

“I would like to. Very much.” Yes, yes. Avoid his question, but tell the truth.

“I would like that, too. Why are you here, anyway?”

“Have no idea.” You fidget with your sweaty hands. “What about you?” You glance at him nervously, but avert your eyes momentarily.

“I have already told you; I am here for you. But I think I remember it clearly now. Yes. I was asleep for such a long time – and then I heard the voice and woke up in this room. You called for me, I think. Were you looking for me?”

You are not sure. Was it Jacquemus you were looking for? Your dream the other day – was it about him? It must have been. And yet, you hesitate. There is no reason for that, though; you would like that man to be the answer, the ultimate goal of your search, but the barely audibly squeak inside your head bitterly says _no_. That’s not him you saw in your dream. And yet, you don’t want to miss this opportunity to know him.

“I think I was.” _Was not, too_. “Kinda.”

“Am I not what you expected to find?” He lowers his head. “Am I not beautiful enough for you?”

You want to shut him up for even thinking about something like that, but you obviously can’t; you don’t want to be impolite, because you feel like it will upset him further.

“It’s not that. You are the most beautiful,” you say in a breathy voice. Smiles comes back to his lips, his face alights in the rays of your sincere flattery.

“Thank you. But we are not talking about me, Harrier; and I should not have made you uncomfortable.”

“That’s alright.”

“You are so very kind to foolish me. Not many people in Revachol are.”

Yeah, one of them also killed him.

“You are frowning. Please, don’t do that,” he is suddenly very close to you, smoothing your glabella with his middle finger. You hold your breath, not wishing to scare him away. “Did I say something wrong?” A shake of the head. “There is something else, then. What troubles you, Harrier? Let me take this tremendous burden off your shoulders.”

He takes away his hand and you exhale, deeply; the pleasant, floral scent hits you.

“You smell nice,” you say, instead of answering his question.

“Thank you, my dear. Do you like it?” You nod. “It’s lavender. I rub three drops on my wrists and my neck every morning. And just a little bit behind my ears.”

He sits on the ottoman; his naked thigh touches yours, hidden underneath the coarse fabric. There is nothing vulgar in Jacquemus’ nakedness, even though you think you would find a naked man’s body vulgar, inappropriate, disgusting even, a long time ago. Many things have changed since.

“But please, tell me what happened.”

On the other hand, Harry, maybe you ran into the right person. He is a dream expert, after all; the best of them. And you have a dream problem. As much as I would hate you for taking advantage of a dead man, you could use this opportunity. Especially when he is so eager to help, too. Actually, it would be more insulting not to use this opportunity.

“I had a dream.”

“Oh, a dream?” He beams. “How fascinating. I know so much about dreams.”

Sadly, you are very aware of that. You would prefer Jacquemus knew nothing about dreams; that way, he would still be alive.

“What was that dream about?”

“Uhm… I don’t really remember.”

“Why does it bother you, then?”

“I think, it was about a man.”

“Oh, I know many things about men as well.” His lashes seductively linger on his skin. “What was the nature of your dream?”

You don’t know how to tell him it was a sex dream. There is nothing shameful in sex between two men, though; you are making it weird because it concerns you directly.

“I think I get it now.” Jacquemus must have seen something on your face, something that spoke to him more eloquently than you ever could. “And I see why it is unsettling. You are not like that, are you, Harrier?”

“Like what?”

“You don’t like men.”

“I am not even sure anymore.” You swallow audibly, tracing the line from his knee to his foot with your eyes.

Jacquemus giggles.

“My, thank you. You said you don’t remember the man you saw in your dream; but you must tell me, is there someone in your life worth dreaming about?”

There are not many people in your life to begin with. Most of them are from Precinct 41. You admired Jean once – or, at least, you think so; because after your returned from the Martinaise case, Jean was nothing but rude to you. And then, Kim transferred and stole you all to himself.

Yeah, Harry, what about Kim?

“I have a partner.”

“A partner, you say? You know,” his voice become but a whisper. “I have a partner, too.” You don’t understand why Jacquemus says it like it is a scandalous secret. No one could possibly eavesdrop your conversation now; but even if they could, Jacquemus should not be ashamed of the fact that he has a partner. You are not ashamed of yours, after all. “But I am sure that’s not what you mean. There is nothing for you to…” A traitorous knock, coming from somewhere outside the room interrupts Jacquemus. “Oh, dear, I think somebody else is looking for you now. I need to return to my slumber. Be sure to visit me again, though.”

Jacquemus stands up and caresses your cheek with his delicate, slim fingers. You want to scream; you will do about anything to make him stay, to make his light touch to linger on you for just a little longer. But just like that, he is gone and the room is gone with him, leaving you to face the cracked ceiling of your apartment.

You rise up from the floor, tangling up in the sheets in the process. When did you get there, anyway? Was it the dream that made you fell off the bed? It does not really matter now. Now you should open the door; and don’t make the person on the other side of it wait. They have been knocking for a long time, after all.

**11:00**

What a surprise, _huh_. Kim is on your doorstep – _again_ , and he has a rather disapproving look on his face. There is nothing you can say to appease him; at least, don’t make it worse.

“Hey, Kim.”

“Did you oversleep again?” Kim can understand when you do that on Monday’s mornings; he knows Sunday is a good day for partying. But he is so confused now; he is sure you went to bed right after he left you, so there is no real, respectful reason for you to be late today.

“Sorry?” You offer, scratching your head. Yeah, apologizing is good. Just don’t try to make an excuse; it’s pathetic. “Can you wait for me in the car?”

“Sure. Just be quick, please.”

Kim leaves without another word and you don’t like that. Remember when you felt that he was angry with you? That was better. You hate this uncertainty; you hate not being able to tell what Kim feels. What anyone feels, actually – but Kim is closer to you than other people, so this ambiguity affects you on a deeper level.

The door closes and you slowly slide down it. Not the best thing you can do now. Get the fuck up and find something appropriate to wear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhmmmmmmmmmmmmm an inimitable veryVal (@madvalgo) made an art inspired by this work. Please, check it out!  
> https://twitter.com/madvalgo/status/1371176408156925963

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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